Guest Review by Max Piesner

I have been known to enjoy the occasional spin on the foosball rods, so when Jay asked me to guest review the Robert Ismert documentary, Foos, I jumped at the chance. This was a film I very much wanted to like. Unfortunately, Mr. Ismert didn’t make the task easy for me. It was immediately obvious that the two hour and thirteen minute film was a labor of love. Love for the game of foosball is expressed by nearly every character introduced in the film and the majority of footage consists of older, out of shape men with Pop-eye-sized forearms reminiscing about the golden years of foos. I (like most people I suspect) was unaware of how popular this barroom game was during the 1970’s, that there was at one point a million dollar pro tour of foosball. A peek into the youth-driven rise and fall of the quirky foos craze could, in itself, make for an entertaining documentary, but, like a father who wants the world for his child, Ismert’s love, or ambitions, for the subject pushed the film kicking and screaming past the tidy boundaries offered by the decade long golden age, as well as past the two hour mark, into the realm of a full-fledged historical investigation of the game.

At times, watching this documentary was like watching a game of foosball in which the players performed pass after pass but abstained from shooting at the goal. We are not shown live footage of these then shaggy 1970s foosball maestros actually playing the game until over 40 minutes into the film. This documentary, to be brutally honest, is probably almost an hour too long. The longer the film run the more foosball begins to seem like an addiction rather than either a sport or a hobby; an addiction Ismert can’t kick any more than the foosaholics he interviews.

The rare occasion when foosball is shown being played succeeds in conveying the speed and pressure of the game far better than all those clips of people talking about it. There is one excellent montage towards the very end of the film in which Ismert presents a series of close shots of the faces of the best foosball players of decades past as they compete in pressure loaded matches to win a fifty thousand dollar prize purse or a new Porsche. These intense expressions are the clearest illustrations in the film of the thrills and emotions foosball is capable of generating. There are other insightful moments too, such as when the inventor of the popular Tornado foosball tables explains his decision to shape the original rod handles like penises in a failed attempt to attract more female players. Of course, admissions like these also help impart to the viewer the delusion many of the characters in this film suffer from. But then, one might argue that the central theme of the film is delusion; from the pro-foosball players who believe the game will some day regain its popularity and status as a recognized sport, to the foosball table manufacturers who are convinced their sales will rebound, to the filmmaker himself who trusts he can hold the audience’s interest for two plus hours with shots of talking heads, still photographs, and languid editing.

Foos could have been a quirky, entertaining film about the barroom game that became a fringe sport, enjoying a decade long golden age, before arcade games drove it back to the status of curious hobby. That’s right, you can blame Pacman. Unfortunately, the documentary is overburdened and eventually sunk by an excessive running time and a failure to meet my one major expectation. I expected the film to show me why so many people fell in love, or at least addiction, with this simple game, but instead it settled for just telling me about it. The participants appeared almost desperate to convince people of the game’s appeal, to get us to take their word for it, without giving us an opportunity to witness firsthand the thrills they spoke of. I felt the love, but I didn’t experience any of it for myself. A shorter, more tightly edited version of this film could have been a real winner. And America, as ex-foosball champion Johnny Horton points out, only loves a winner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go practice my bank shot.